Mending
by Bookworm Kate
Summary: Foyle's War - This takes place during and after the episode Bad Blood in Season Four. Sam's dangerous illness brings old memories to the surface for Foyle. Foyle/Sam.
1. Chapter 1

"Mending"

A/N: This takes place during and after the episode _Bad Blood_ in Season Four. Sam's dangerous illness brings old memories to the surface for Foyle. Foyle/Sam. I wanted to explore a different side of Foyle.

I.

Through the throbbing that resonated in and around Sam's head she could hear light footsteps. They stopped. Sam peered carefully through her eyelashes, hoping it wasn't Farnetti again. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw the familiar overcoat belonging to Mr. Foyle. She called out softly, "Sir."

Foyle turned, an apologetic smile on his face, "Sorry to wake you." He came closer and looked down at her lying so vulnerably below. As he pulled a chair to the side of her bed, Sam glanced at him shyly. "The doctors think you are on the mend," Foyle said quietly, relief obvious in his voice.

Sam smiled and pulled at a loose thread on her nightgown, saying that was good news since she had been thinking again. The blush that came into her pale cheeks brightened her face for a moment. Foyle joked with her, "What – again?" and was glad to see her smile more broadly. It was his turn to smile however, when she explained she had decided to go through the crossroads and not marry Joe Farnetti. Foyle felt his insides jolt and he tried to keep from looking too pleased. He wasn't sure he could bear it if Sam was whisked away from them all just now, especially after this near death encounter with the horrible infection. As Sam felt sleep coming to engulf her again she heard Foyle say in response to her question about being useful, "Can't go anywhere with you…" and saw him smile down at her in a way that permeated itself into her dreams.

Foyle let out a deep sigh and set his hat on the end of the hospital bed. He found himself looking at Sam as she slept, memorizing every detail of her face, remembering its many expressions over the years. He sighed again, and the nurse passing at that moment looked sharply over, then nodded as she saw who it was with the young woman. Foyle watched her retreating back and biting his lip, suppressed the urge to sigh again. He felt very confused all of a sudden. Taking up Sam's hand gently so as not to wake her, Foyle leaned against the side of the bed and watched her sleep, relieved to hear her breathing start to return to normal. And before he knew it, he was lulled into a doze by her rhythmic breaths, drifting into dreams that he could scarcely believe.

* * *

The ground pitched and shuddered with the impact of the bomb. Sam Stewart was thrown backwards into Joe Farnetti's arms, and he held her close. "Marry me, Sam," she heard him say. Before she could answer she felt someone pulling at her arm, and as she turned to look, she recognized the blue of an RAF uniform. "Oh no, Andrew," Sam thought. But the face under the cap was Mr. Foyle's, and he was tugging her hand, saying urgently, "I can't go anywhere without you…" Just then, another explosion turned the world black, and Sam woke with a start, Foyle's words ringing in her ears.

The faint light of early morning pressed through the windows of the hospital ward, and outside, birds were chirping. Sam swallowed hard, relieved it had only been a dream. Her throat was painfully dry and her chest felt very heavy. As she came to slowly, blinking the sleep from her eyes, she became aware of a weight on her hand.

She looked over and saw Foyle dozing in the chair next to her bed, his head lolling slightly with each breath. He held her hand in a vice-like grip. His hat lay at the foot of her bed, looking at home there. The early morning light caught the grey in the curls at the base of his neck. Sam suppressed the sudden urge to reach out and touch them. She studied his face, noticing how, for once, he looked quite peaceful. Sam couldn't believe he had stayed by her side all night. She felt a bit embarrassed, hoping she hadn't drooled or snored in her sleep. She looked at the glass of water on her side table, wondering if she could reach it with her right hand, since her left was encased in Foyle's warm one. The bed creaked as she shifted and Foyle woke with a sharp intake of breath. "Sam?" Foyle said in concern, his voice husky from sleep.

"Yes, Sir?" Sam replied. She felt his hand drop hers.

He cleared his throat, "A-are you alright?"

"Yes, thank you, Sir, I was just reaching for my water."

Foyle handed it to her, but saw how her hand shook when lifting it. After a few sips she spluttered, causing water to drip down her chin. Foyle hesitated, then, as if he had done it many time before, reached into his pocket for his handkerchief while placing the glass on the nightstand. He dabbed her chin and Sam could smell Foyle's familiar scent briefly. "Thank you, Sir."

Foyle smiled and cleared his throat again, self-consciously pulling at his tie. "How do you feel?"

Sam swallowed, "still pretty rotten, Sir, but much better than yesterday." She tried to sound bright and cheerful, but Foyle could see the exhaustion in her face. A nurse came over in a rustle of starch, seeing her patient awake. She looked at Foyle kindly and knowingly, and he realized he was lucky to have been able to stay here all night. Hopefully it wouldn't get her into trouble. "Well good morning, how are we then?" Foyle wondered if the "we" was meant to include him. Nurse stuck a thermometer into Sam's mouth before she could answer and began to check her over. "There's a young service man outside waiting to speak to you, Miss Stewart, a Joe Farnetti, I believe." Sam tried to sit up, her eyes growing wide. Foyle stood slowly, "Perhaps it is best that you do see him, Sam." She nodded mournfully. Foyle understood how bad she felt in turning him down, so he smiled warmly at her as he retrieved his hat. "I'm going to speak with the doctor a moment, and will be back soon." Foyle hoped it would give her enough time to explain "the crossroads" to Joe. Sam nodded again, this time free of the thermometer, "Yes, Sir." Foyle turned and walked down the ward, his footsteps echoing on the polished floor.

Foyle found the doctor in his office having a cup of tea. He ushered Foyle in and sat back down, pulling a file towards him. "Well, Mr. Foyle, I'm glad you're here. I've just received word that a company of wounded soldiers will be arriving this afternoon, and I'm afraid there won't be much space left here at the hospital. Our less ill or injured patients will either have to be moved or return home. After I examine Miss Stewart I will be able to better determine if she is ready to go home. She will need to be looked after for a few days still, however. Do you know if she has someone who can be with her?"

Foyle chewed his lip as he heard this, and tried to think if he actually knew about Sam's living situation. "I expect she does, and I can arrange for her to be transported home," he said at last.

The doctor pronounced Sam well enough to go home, but he made it clear that she was still weak and needed rest. She was mending sufficiently, and to be at home in her own bed could only help. Nurse wheeled her down to where Brookie stood waiting with the car, Foyle striding alongside listening to her administrations. "Don't forget to keep her chest warm, and if she starts having difficulty breathing, let us know at once!" Foyle nodded and thanked her. They bundled Sam into the back of the Wolseley. In no time they had her back to her room in the little house she shared with the old lady who owned it. The two men helped her up the narrow flight of stairs the best they could, but Foyle could see how much the move had tired her.

"Glad to see you home, Miss Stewart," said Brookie, after she was settled. On his way out he gave her a quick, cheeky grin and touched his cap.

Foyle set out the medicines and a glass of water on the bedside table, "Now, um, will you be alright until your landlady comes back?"

Sam smiled tiredly, "I think so, Sir. She is probably shopping, and shouldn't be long." Foyle felt slightly awkward standing in her room, and he cleared his throat before twitching his lips into a soft smile.

"Good, well then get some rest, and I'll come by tomorrow morning to see how you are. If there are any troubles, you can ring the station. I'll be there this afternoon, finishing the reports for this case."

"Thank you, Sir." Sam hesitated, "And thank you for staying with me…" She felt unsure of what to say, but Foyle nodded understandingly and said, "Not a problem. See you tomorrow." He paused at the door and looked back to see Sam shifting and getting comfortable for sleep. He pulled the door closed softly behind him, hoping she would feel better tomorrow and that the hospital hadn't been mistaken in letting her go so soon.

The remaining hours of the afternoon seemed to drag on for Foyle, and he desperately wished to be done with the report. Going back over it made him realize all the more how much danger Sam had been in. It might have been her, instead of Elsie. He heaved a great sigh, typed a few more lines, and ripped the page out of the typewriter. His hands were shaking. That was enough for today, he decided.

As he left the station Foyle stopped to speak with Brookie, "Come by a bit earlier tomorrow if you would, Sergeant, so we can stop to check on Miss Stewart."

Brookie grinned, "See you bright and early, Sir."

Foyle nodded and stepped out into the cold night air. He pulled his overcoat more tightly around him and walked quickly home. His house on Steep Lane was cold and quiet, and he did the blackout in the lounge so he could make a fire. Foyle poured himself a drink and stood with his back to the flames. He couldn't stop shaking. The worry and strain of the past few days had caught up with him, and he felt completely drained. He would have liked to fall into his chair and only resurface when he didn't feel so wretched, but instead he turned toward the stairs with a newfound determination. "One step at a time," Foyle told himself, and he smiled slightly, relieved to have a plan.

Pulling off his tie as he mounted the stairs, Foyle went into the tiled bathroom and turned on the hot water tap to draw a bath. Ignoring the regulatory three inches, Foyle let it fill properly. He pulled off all his clothes, letting them lay where they fell, and sank in to the water until his head was underwater. "Ah, finally some peace," he thought, as the only sound was the pounding of his own heart.

When he resurfaced he lay back and sighed, ready to think and let his mind wander. "One step at a time, that was what got me through Rosalind's death," Foyle thought to himself. He remembered the hellish time they had when she was ill, and the few days before her death. He had focused on Andrew and tried to keep the daily routine going to help the boy through it all. It was only afterward Foyle had allowed himself to ask the question, "What do I do now?" Somehow, he had pulled himself together and raised their son.

He felt his chest become heavy at these recollections, and the worry he felt when thinking about Andrew settled in his gut. "Isn't it enough?" he thought savagely, "Must you put Sam in harm's way too?" He wasn't sure if it was God he was talking to, but he wanted to be angry at someone. It was sometimes easier that way. Angry at Hitler for putting Andrew in danger; angry at the commissioner for not letting him be more useful in the war effort; angry at himself for letting his feelings get the better of him when it came to Sam. Dear, lovely Sam – a bright light in these dark years.

He knew it was useless to ask why. Why had Rosalind died, why did Andrew have to go off to war? These were questions that Foyle didn't like to think about, but each time he did, it made him realize how lucky he was to have Andrew. He was so much like his mother sometimes. Foyle smiled at the thought, seeing in his mind's eye a little boy pointing at ducks, asking why they couldn't come inside for tea too. God he missed his wife, but he understood that he had a part to play in life still. Today had proved that. Foyle paused in his thoughts, suddenly feeling the cold of the tiled room. He dunked himself under the water, trying to clear his mind.

Foyle dragged himself out of his memories and began to lather and scrub. He usually thought about Rosalind a lot, but he always tried to steer away from the painful last few days. He hadn't really thought about them in a while. He supposed Sam's illness and possible fatal infection, and staying at the hospital had brought them to the surface again. And then Foyle froze, soapy hands still in his hair. No. He must _not_ equate Rosalind and Sam, their illnesses, situations, anything – otherwise…

Foyle frowned, and scrubbed savagely at his head. She was his driver, a team player, a friend, and that was all. He dunked himself underwater again and rose once more with the determined look on his face. He couldn't allow such thoughts to wander.

He drew himself out his bath with an almighty splash and frowned at himself in the mirror. He looked horrible: his face showed his exhaustion, and was in shadow where he needed to shave. He noticed how pale and sad he appeared too. He bit his lip and stood back, looking at the rest of himself. He appeared thinner these days, thanks to rationing, but his leg muscles bulged satisfyingly, likely from all the walking he'd been doing recently. He flexed his arms and grinned at himself like a schoolboy. "Cheer up," he thought, "it will be better tomorrow." He dried himself vigorously and gathered up his pile of clothes. In his bedroom he pulled on clean pajamas from the drawer, as if to start fresh in accordance with his determinism. He was resolved to be cheerful and positive, if not to help himself get over the strain of the past few days, at least to help Sam stay upbeat when he saw her tomorrow. He slid into bed that night with the comforting thought that she was safe at home in bed, on the mend.

If only he knew how wrong he was.

TBC…


	2. Chapter 2

II.

The day began with cold sheets of rain bucketing down. Foyle stood on the doorstep of the little house Sam shared with the old lady, knocking loudly. He glanced up at the sky and realized the rain was not going to stop anytime soon. He looked back at the car and saw Brookie huddled inside. He knocked again. When no one answered, he began to worry. He bit his lip and looked around at the ground…maybe there was a key?

He turned the knob, just in case, but the door wouldn't budge. Sliding his hand under a potted plant, he felt around for a key – nothing. Then he tried above the door frame, still nothing. Foyle took a few steps back and looked up at the house. It looked very cold and dark.

He walked quickly through the rain to the car and opened the door. He told Brookie the problem and said, "I'm going to try the back door." Foyle went round the back and picked his way across the muddy garden. The back door was stiff, but after a good shove, Foyle tumbled into the dark kitchen. Heedless of his wet shoes, he went through to the lounge, calling out, "Hello, is anybody here?" When no one answered he felt a moment of fear. He ran up the stairs and burst unceremoniously into Sam's room.

Foyle's heart seemed to stop and he felt cold all over. He realized a moment later he had forgotten to breath. Sam had turned over at the sound of her door opening and revealed a face caked with dry blood. Her eyes stared back, hollow and unseeing. She looked confused at first, still drowsy with sleep, but then realized it was Foyle. "Sam!" he said urgently, "what on earth has happened?"

"I'm fine," she said weakly, "it just looks bad, I expect, Sir." Her voice was so quiet that Foyle had to come closer. He could see the gash on her forehead now. She saw his gaze and put a hand up to it.

"I fell and knocked my head against the chest of drawers in the night," Sam said. She looked up at him warily, hoping he wouldn't give her one of his looks. She was surprised, instead to see a strange look on his face, he looked pained and relieved and angry all at the same time. It was, however, the blatant sadness that took her by surprise.

"Where," said Foyle in a measured tone, "is your landlady?" He had that "I'm about to have words with someone" look now – the relief replaced by annoyance.

Sam sat up slightly, "I don't know, Sir," she paused, "the only reason I can think of is that her daughter has gone into labor and she went to be with her. There is bound to be a note on the table downstairs."

"I see." Foyle pursed his lips. He looked at Sam carefully, noticing how pale she was. Coming closer still, he sat on the edge of the bed and stretched out his hand. Sam blinked in surprise when she felt his hand cup her cheek and saw his eyes looking intently at her face. She swallowed, wincing, as her throat was still dry and sore. "Does it hurt?" Foyle asked softly, scrutinizing the gash on her forehead. Sam would have preferred to just shake her head, as she didn't trust her voice, but Foyle was holding it firmly. Sam blushed, "Not too much, Sir." She found herself watching his eyes and his lips twitching in assessment of her wound. He caught her eye and in that moment they each realized something. Foyle sat back, letting go hurriedly, "Why don't we get it clean, um, and then we can see if it needs to be stitched up."

He rose and moved to the side to let her get up. Sam stood, but put out a hand, feeling wobbly and weak. Foyle put his arm around her shoulders, took her hand and guided her to the bathroom across the landing. As he eased her down onto a chair next the sink, he felt her breast graze his arm and his stomach gave an unpleasant jolt, leaving him slightly breathless.

Clearing his throat, Foyle stood, catching sight of himself in the mirror. He realized he was soaking wet, drops of rain sliding off the brim of his hat. "Can I leave you to, uh, clean it?" Foyle asked, feeling awkward again. "I'm just going to see if I can find the note and I'll make you a cup of tea."

Sam smiled gratefully at him and nodded, "I'll be fine, Sir."

He wanted to ask why she hadn't called someone, made her neighbors come over; _anything_ but suffering a night alone and miserable – but seeing how weak she was, he understood. Foyle swore at himself as he went downstairs, really worried about what might have happened to her, as well as how it would affect her recovery. He found the note, like Sam said, on the table in the hall.

"Sam," – it said in scrawling handwriting– "Betty has gone into labor. Going over to Brighton to be with her. I may be there all weekend, so look after yourself and feed Harry if you would. See you soon, Mrs. Moore."

Resisting the urge to crumple the note in annoyance, and wondering who the hell Harry was, Foyle went through to the kitchen to put the kettle on. "I should have stayed here until I knew someone could be with her," Foyle thought, chastising himself. Closing the back door suddenly reminded him of Brookie. He went through the front entrance and saw the sergeant looking anxiously up at the house. "I was just about to come find you, Sir," he shouted through the open window of the Wolseley, "everything alright?"

Foyle, getting drenched again, leaned down and poked his head in. "The landlady is away, so she's been here on her own all night." He left out the part about finding Sam with blood on her face. Foyle chewed his lip, "I'm going to try and find someone to be with her. Maybe one of her friends can come over."

Brookie nodded slowly, "But won't most of her friends be at work?"

Foyle groaned slightly and looked away, "Yes, of course." He looked back at Brookie, "Maybe one of the nurses from the hospital… or," he faltered, realizing that they would be too busy at the hospital just recently inundated with wounded soldiers.

Brookie said cautiously, "What Miss Stewart needs is a friend, not just to look after her, but to keep her spirits up."

Foyle looked at him sharply. The detective, for all his skills at solving cases, was slow to see what would fix this problem.

Brookie went on, nervously now, "Sergeant Milner, or I, or…you, Sir, would be the best for her, at least for today." He paused, looking at Foyle, awaiting his reaction.

Foyle frowned, but then saw the sense in this – all Sam's friends would be at their jobs by now, and probably couldn't get the day off on such short notice. He took a deep breath and looked back at the house. It looked cold and forlorn in the rain of the morning, and Foyle thought to himself once again, "One step at a time." He pushed his sopping hat up on his forehead and looked back at Brookie.

"I'll stay with Sam today, Sergeant. If there are any issues at the station, you know where to find me."

Brookie's face spilt into one of his cheeky grins, an added measure of relief and perception showing in his eyes. Foyle nodded at him, smiling slightly, and walked back into the house. And his face, although tense and grim, was set with that same determined look of the previous evening.

TBC…


	3. Chapter 3

III.

Foyle carried a tray with toast and tea upstairs. He set it on the small desk in Sam's room and went to knock on the door to the bathroom. "Sam?" he called through the door softly, "are you alright?"

Sam opened the door, "Mending, Sir, thank you." Foyle saw that she had not only cleaned the gash, but also washed her hair. The fresh scent of lavender wafted through the open door. She smiled slightly at him, "Do I smell toast?" Foyle laughed and offered her his arm, sneaking a sidelong glance at her face. She was still pale, but a light had returned to her eyes.

Before he brought the tray over he looked closely at her forehead. "You gave me quite a fright, you know," he said grimly. She lowered her eyes meekly, a bit ashamed of her foolish mishap. The gash was not too deep, and Sam had cleaned it well and put some ointment on it. "At least it has stopped bleeding," she commented, "I thought I was going to bleed to death last night." She said this wryly, attempting a carefree attitude, but Foyle could imagine the fear she had felt. The nighttime plays tricks on your thoughts, and medicine and exhaustion would not have helped. He felt a pang go through him, thinking of her all alone and afraid.

"What _were_ you doing?" Foyle asked firmly as he brought the tray over. He watched Sam attack the toast with some incredulity, thinking to himself, "Does nothing faze her appetite?"

"I had to get up in the night, and on my way back to bed I tripped on the chair near the door. Since I'm still so wobbly I fell headlong into my dresser. My face flannel was soaked through fairly quickly and I felt awfully cold, so all I could think of was getting back into bed." Sam looked at the pillow and bed sheets, as if noticing the blood stains for the first time. She dropped her toast and groaned. "Oh Mrs. Moore is going to be livid when she sees these!"

"Don't worry about that now," Foyle said somewhat impatiently, "what matters is, how do you feel? Do I need to get a nurse to see you?"

Sam looked at him, horrified at the thought, "No, please don't, Sir, I will be fine."

Foyle nodded, "I _am_ going to get someone to come be with you this weekend, however." Foyle noticed her shoulders droop slightly. "A friend, or maybe a family member?" He knew her mother was still ill, and her father was too busy with his parish to possibly get away, but maybe an aunt or one of her uncles…

Sam looked up at him suddenly, "Will _you_ stay with me?" She blushed, but didn't look away. "I know you are busy at the station, and you probably have things to do this weekend…" she paused, unsure of what to say, and feeling a bit silly. He smiled at her kindly, hope surging through him. But he hesitated in his answer – it wasn't proper for him to stay. But he wanted to very much, so very, very much.

"Let's see how you, um, progress today, and go from there," Foyle said slowly. Sam nodded, glancing away, unsatisfied with his response. Foyle bit his lip and looked at her with a pained expression. He was as confused as Sam looked. He stood and took her tray, "I'll just make some more tea." He felt relieved to be gone for a moment so he could think of what to do without his facial expressions giving him away. Sam could read them well, he knew. And, he could read Sam's. He saw her feelings and it startled him. He told himself, "She's just vulnerable at the moment, that's all."

Foyle sighed heavily as he waited for the kettle to boil. Wanting something to do with his hands, he went into the lounge and got a small fire going to warm up the house a bit. He took his overcoat and hat from the stand near the door and draped them over a chair nearest the fire to help them dry. He stood for a few minutes by the fire, letting it warm him through. He realized that he would have to face Sam and explain that he couldn't stay. For one thing, he couldn't trust his own feelings, not that he would say that to her. Instead, he would blame propriety, and get in touch with one of her friends that evening.

He took the tea up. When he walked into the room he saw that Sam's eyes were closed and he stopped. He looked around and saw a wooden chair, "probably the one that she tripped on," he thought, and pulled it close to the bed. After setting the teacup softly on the bedside table, he sat, looking slowly around the room. Finally, he looked at Sam and again his face was a picture of anguish.

He knew why he cared for her. The vitality, strength, optimism, and joy Sam possessed was enough to make anyone fall in love with her, but it was her unyielding loyalty and compassion towards himself and others that really made him feel connected to her. She made the day worth getting up for. He and Sam had shared so many experiences, some life threatening, and come through unscathed so far. It was as if a life working side by side was meant to be. He sighed and tried to ignore the urge to kiss the top of her head.

Feeling restless, Foyle picked up the book that lay haphazardly among the medicine bottles, clock, water glass and pencils. He smiled slightly: _Murder at the Vicarage_, by Agatha Christie. He was sure Sam's father, nor her uncles would approve. Curiously, he flipped through it, noticing light pencil marks on pages of interest. One caught his eye, however, near the beginning of the story.

The speakers were discussing other characters and Foyle's eyes rested on the line that read, _"Disgusting, I call it," continued Miss Hartnell, with her usual tactlessness. "The man must be at least twenty-five years older than she is._" The passage had an indistinguishable mark next to it. He snapped the book shut, and put it back on the table, frowning. "Why do writers always have the beautiful, young women married to older men, then proceed to have the women commit adultery or murder their husbands?" Foyle thought. He chewed his lip. "Maybe it is supposed to mean that such marriages would never work?" He answered his own thoughts, looking down at Sam, "But if there is love…?"

Mentally chastising himself, he stood and walked to the window, looking out at the rain. "What am I thinking?" Foyle sighed, putting his hands in his pockets. Nevertheless, he tried to reason with himself, "Why shouldn't I be attracted to her?" After all, he had said very nearly the same thing to Andrew. Then, "But she is my driver, and has her whole life ahead of her." He battled with himself, lost in thought.

Foyle jumped slightly when he heard a soft, "Sir?" come from behind him. He wasn't sure how long he had been standing by the window. Sam was looking at him with tears in her eyes. Her expression was that of waking from a bad dream. He moved swiftly to her side, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Sam?" he said with concern.

To his surprise she put her head on his chest and threw her arms around his neck, speaking almost incoherently through her soft sobs. "I was so afraid I was going to die…it would've been so unfair…and so many people have lost their lives...you've been such a brick these past few years…jolly nice to me…and Joe…I felt so awful…all I wanted was to see you, and then you were there…and I didn't die…and…and…" She gave a huge sniff and Foyle pulled her close, letting her free herself of all that had been worrying away at her. He kissed the top of her head and rocked her slightly, his eyes closed, face knowing, understanding, concerned. His hands were shaking and he hoped she wouldn't notice. He kissed her head, moving down to her cheek, whispering, "It's alright, I'm here."

Sam took a deep breath, calming herself and pushing the tears away. She breathed in Foyle's familiar smell and a shiver went down her spine. His arms tightened around her. His lips were still on her head, resting on her temple. He could feel her pulse. Pulling away slowly, he searched her face. She looked straight into his blue eyes, and Foyle felt like she was looking right through him, seeing all his thoughts and into to his soul. Feeling a bit embarrassed, he bit his lip. At that recognizable action, Sam hugged him reassuringly, "Sorry, Sir. Thank you." Her hair had fallen into his face and he breathed it in. He put his hand on the back of her head and said weakly, "Of course… I should thank you, really." He paused and pulled her closer. "Dear Sam, you've kept me sane and brightened my worst days. What on earth would I have done without you?"

On impulse, or perhaps still following that determined feeling, Foyle kissed Sam on the cheek. He was holding her face in his hands, eyes wandering, searching, memorizing. She leaned in and kissed him back, but on the lips. It was so quick, that Foyle almost had no time to acknowledge it. He stared, mouth slightly open in surprise and delight. Sam laughed softly at the look on his face. Her laugh was quenched as Foyle kissed her determinedly on the lips, forgetting himself, the War, and the people outside the house. Her hands slid up his back and rested amongst the curls at the nape of his neck and she smiled happily to herself, reminded of her earlier compulsion.

"Is this what you would call a 'home remedy'?" Sam asked with a cheeky twinkle in her eye.

"Absolutely," said Foyle, grinning, kissing her laughing lips and pulling her away from a world embittered and devastated by war.


End file.
